


Unfamiliar

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Kinktober 2019 [18]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: First Meetings, Kinktober Day 18: Sthenolagnia, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Gladio meets his Prince.





	Unfamiliar

“Noctis, you said his name was?”

Gladio keeps his voice to the low murmur his father has taught him - a sound that won’t carry beyond them, certainly not to King Regis and a son nobody knew he had until about fifteen minutes ago. Even Clarus remained unaware of his arrival until a few moments before he walked in the door. Except Clarus actually knew of his existence.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, taken overseas by Aulea Lucis Caelum at a young age, to be kept away from prying eyes until he became old enough to protect himself. Born sickly, premature, and injured at a young age by a rogue demon. From the get-go, the odds have been stacked against him, but it seems the youngest Caelum has persevered. 

He's gaunt, a grim-looking kid, skin pale as the moon against the layers of Lucian black. His clothing is ill-fitting, looking like it was scrounged out of a dumpster. There are holes, patched and non, fraying edges. Things that would make Ignis tear out his hair, or maybe just rip the clothes off the kid and start patching them. From what Gladio can see of his arms and legs, he’s skinny as a fuckin’ rail, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of sleep deprivation, or maybe insomnia. But there’s also a sharpness to those eyes, a casual arrogance to how he moves and speaks that says he’s used to being obeyed, scrappy appearance or no. 

This boy is to be Gladiolus’ King; his Prince for now, but one day when Regis passes the crown on, his King. 

“Yes,” Clarus breathes back, and pauses as Regis smiles at Noctis, ear-to-ear, and Noctis’ own mouth curves into a cat’s smirk, only slightly gentled at the ends. Then those eyes are fixing on him, and the smile drops away like it was never there at all. 

“And this is Clarus. You were rather young at the time, so I don’t know if you recall Clarus or not.”

“Uncle Clarry,” Noctis remarks, and Clarus  _ laughs.  _ “Hard to forget the man I thought was a literal giant when I was a child.”

“To be fair, I  _ was  _ a giant to you.” Clarus puts a hand against his back, and Gladio doesn’t need a word; he drops into a bow. “My son, Gladiolus. He would serve as your Shield, if you would have him.”

Noctis’ head tilts just so. “We will see. Come closer.”

Gladio rises and goes. Noctis watches his every step like a hawk, and Gladio kneels only when he is a mere step and a half from his young liege. Up close, Noctis looks even worse for wear. More like he has been running himself ragged, wherever he’s been. It makes him wonder. 

Before he can do more than wonder, Noctis snatches his chin in a hand. His grip is firm, though not tight; Gladio hasn’t had someone touch him with such a hand  _ ever.  _ Usually it’s him who does the gripping and maneuvering. 

“He seems healthy enough.” Noctis lets go of his chin. “A trial run.”

“Thank you,” Clarus says. “Gladiolus won’t disappoint you.”

“We will see.” 

Regis talks to his son a little longer, Gladio dutifully returning to his own father’s side to wait, but eventually they part ways. Noctis wishes both men well as they go, and then once the door is shut, turns to Gladio, who has remained standing where he was earlier. If he is to serve, he must remain by his Prince’s side.

“Do you want this?” Noctis demands, and Gladio blinks, surprised. “I won’t take you on if you’re unhappy with the thought of being bound to a cripple.”

“You’re not crippled,” Gladio says. “I read the file. But no, I’m not unhappy.”

“Perhaps not physically, but certainly health-wise. Let me be abundantly clear - if you agree to remain my protector, chances are you’ll have to deal with me coughing up blood on a regular basis, or getting sick a lot, or not being able to keep up with you physically. I can’t run races - I can barely run at all, if I’m being perfectly frank. I will never be the warrior my father was, or any of my ancestors were. At most, I can stave off an assassination attempt long enough for someone else to arrive. Failing that, I will die.”

The thought is sad. Almost pitiful. Someone with as much backbone, as much spirit as Noctis Lucis Caelum has shouldn’t be allowed to die a dog’s death, choking on his own blood while his assassin crows victory. Shouldn’t need to worry about whether or not he can take a clean gulp of air without his airways collapsing. He shouldn’t have the phrase ‘born weak’ written into his records, and remembered as such. 

“I’ve taken care of the sick and dying before,” Gladio says, keeping his eyes on Noctis. “I know it’s not pretty. I don’t expect anything related to the Kings to be such. I can’t promise you I won’t get exasperated some days, or upset because you’re sick for the third time and there’s nothing I can do to help you. I won’t promise I won’t get burnt out on trying to keep you healthy. But I won’t leave you to suffer alone, and I won’t walk away. I won’t leave you to die choking in your own blood so long as my heart beats. I am your Shield, and I will do my utmost to protect you, even from your own body.”

“Bold,” Noctis murmurs, considering. He taps a finger to his lower lip, beckons Gladio forward with his other hand. “You’re not the first to say such, but you’re one of the few who seems to mean it.”

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean.” The thought alone irritates him. 

Noctis smiles. “Perhaps,” he says. “Time will tell whether you’re all muscle or not.”

“Says the man with a grip like iron.”

“I’m used to making men bend their very proud necks. I came here prepared to do it quite a bit - to my Shield as well, if necessary.”

“Give the order then,” Gladio demands, and when Noctis turns to him, says, “Or make me want to bow my neck to you without the force. More than one way to skin a cat, after all. And your father certainly seemed impressed by what he saw. So let me see it too. Let me see what makes you special,  _ Highness.” _

Noctis claims not to be able to move as fast as Gladio would like, but in that moment he proves it to be a lie, as he seems to vanish from Gladio’s vision for a moment, and his legs are suddenly knocked out from beneath him, his chin once again gripped in a ruthless hand, blue eyes burning down into his own as Noctis looms over him, power sparking off him in waves.

In a handful of seconds he’s taken Gladiolus down. And now he keeps Gladio there, for even as Gladio strains upwards, he finds no give in Noctis’ grip. Noctis watches him with those terrible blue eyes, power shifting between them like the ocean’s waves, and at last Gladio goes quiet and still, recognizing that the gauntlet he threw has been thrown right back - and he has failed to hold against it. 

Noctis holds a moment longer, and then shifts his grip downward, and Gladio feels every hair on his body stand at attention at the light touch his Prince applies to his throat. Not even a true grip, but merely the shadow of an intention. He doesn’t flinch from it, even as his body breaks out in gooseflesh, because flinching means he’s afraid, and he’s not, not of Noctis or of his powers. Gladio called that strength to come down on him, and he meant it. 

And Noctis knows it. He tilts his head, inquisitive like a bird, and for a moment, just runs fingers over the lines of his neck, over the thick vein there and the adam’s apple, down to the collarbone. 

Then just as abruptly he  _ grips,  _ and Gladio has the air cut off, but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight like someone else might. This isn’t some typical power play where Gladio can throw his weight around and expect to win. No smart Shield would do that anyhow. Instead he reaches up, hooks his fingers to Noctis’ wrist and finds the heartbeat there, closes his eyes and forces himself to follow it. To listen. Because so long as the heartbeat beneath his fingertips continues to beat, it doesn’t matter if he dies. By the hand of his king or otherwise. It doesn’t matter.

Noctis releases him like he’s been scorched, and Gladio’s hand drops from his wrist as he inhales, deep and slow. The rush fills him, warm and tingling, slow pleasure inching through his body, half-filled cock only twitching all the more for it. Knowing his Prince can manhandle him, can drop him like this is a rush like nothing else, and Gladio has craved it since the day Clarus told him about the King he would serve. 

And evidently too, there is something in Gladio that feeds Noctis’ desires. He watches as Gladio rubs at his throat with one hand, and jerks his chin up in an answer when Gladio looks to him in silent askance. Gladio rises, and Noctis says, “You’re mine, as of now. Don’t die, Shield.”

“Wasn’t going to, Majesty,” he answers, and the title sends a thin tremble through Noctis’ frame. It seems Gladio isn’t the only one housing a kink here. 

They leave the room together, Prince and Shield, ten years slow but still at each other’s backs. 


End file.
